


Not a Damsel, Not in Distress

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier isn't a damsel in distress, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, M/M, Major Character Injury, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: The one closest to him raised his trembling sword with a panicked expression at the unexpected violence.  “Wh--what the fuck?  You’re just a bard.”Jaskier’s smile was more a baring of his teeth, made more alarming with the blood sprayed across his skin and clothing.  “Your first mistake was believing that.”_____________________________Geralt and Jaskier are ambushed by a pack of mercenaries.  It was really their fault for believing the yellow eyed Witcher was the only threat.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 201
Kudos: 4935
Collections: Fan Fiction Addiction, Fave Stories of Queixo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As you know, I am fascinated with the vicious side of Jaskier that we see on occasion. We sort of forget that this is the character that wished death and destruction on his enemies because of how dorky he is around Geralt. 
> 
> So I wrote Jaskier in all his badass, feral glory protecting his Witcher like the vicious little bard he is.

Jaskier saw the blood spray and felt his world go still and quiet.

The ground beneath his feet was distant, the pain in his jaw from the punch delivered by the brawny mercenary holding his arm pinned to his side insignificant. He could hear the laughter of the group like a poison in his veins, sinking deeper as they reveled in the victory they’d attained through trickery and ambush.

Geralt stumbled, the arrow in his shoulder draining his usual grace. The fight with the kikimora that had drawn them out to this corner of the world had already taken too much time and strength from the warrior. They’d been easy targets, tired and eager for a chance to rest in an inn with the coin they’d earned. Yellow eyes flicked towards Jaskier in an instinctive sweep and the bard could see the moment he decided to ignore his own injuries in favor of setting him free.

Only, the group must have been planning for just that.

The archer, who’d been stationed out of reach from even Geralt’s magic and senses, stepped out of the line of trees and carefully selected another arrow. His face was calm--confident as any hunter about to run his quarry to the ground--as he nocked his bow and drew the string back in one fluid movement. He narrowed his eyes at the warrior surrounded by his foes and bleeding bright and beautiful onto the dirt of the path.

The Witcher shoved away at another one of the soldiers attempting to circle him and use their numbers to their advantage, switching his weapon to his uninjured side in an attempt to avoid losing the strength of his attacks. All of Kaer Morhen’s pupils were trained to do the same and Jaskier knew firsthand how well Geralt could fight without slowing against any beast. But it didn’t make him immune to the press of numbers or the pain of the bolt still lodged in his flesh.

Or the archer taking careful aim at him from a distance.

“ _ Geralt _ !” Jaskier screamed in warning, thrashing against the hands holding him in place.

_ Not enough. Not enough. _

His eyes darted to where the archer was smiling now, teeth bared in preparation for the release and inevitable fall. 

The soldier at Jaskier’s back tightened his hold and twisted his arm until the bard had to bite his lip to keep from crying out at the sharp agony. “Do you enjoy watching him fall because of you?” he sneered, “The perfect little damsel in distress for everyone’s schemes.”

Jaskier went still.

He blinked, slow and resolute. His ears heard the panting, excited breaths of the mercenaries; the rustle of cloth against armor as Geralt whirled to meet the downward swing of a sword; the soft twang of a bow releasing its arrow into the air. It felt like time slowed to a drag designed to allow Jaskier plenty of time to dread and watch the path the arrow sliced through the air.

Then it was striking home in Geralt’s gut, prompting a roar of pain from the Witcher. He stood for a beat, looking stunned and confused by the new burst of pain. Those golden eyes slowly dragged to Jaskier’s horrified expression and slowly fluttered shut.

He fell.

Jaskier must have screamed, must have cursed or roared out his fury, but the sound was drowned out by the sound of Geralt’s body hitting the earth with a heavy thud. One of the mercenaries stepped closer, nudging the too-still Witcher with his boot and smiling when there wasn’t a response. Cruel laughter followed and something deep within Jaskier  _ snapped _ .

It was easy to shift his hands in the bigger man’s grip so he could grab at the pressure point at the joint of his wrist. He pressed his thumbs in with all his strength and was rewarded with a howl of pain and the arms pinning him in place loosening in surprise. Jaskier spun roughly, stepping inside the man’s guard to bring the heel of his hand up  _ hard _ . 

Bone crunched in tune to the scream of pain when Jaskier felt the arch of his nose gave way beneath his blow. Blood dripped along with tears down the soldier’s cheeks and Jaskier ignored the clumsy, half-blind swipe at his head easily. His next punch sank into the vulnerable flesh of the man’s throat and Jaskier felt a feral smile cross his lips when he felt his windpipe crush beneath the force of his attack.

The soldier had barely fallen at his feet when he whirled to meet the next.

Hours of travelling by Geralt’s side and singing late into the night at each tavern ensures that his body is honed to a knife’s edge and his endurance was enough to bridge the gap between size and skill. He lunged forward, rolling beneath a slash from another mercenary, and let his leg lash out to topple the man’s unsteady stance. The soldier stumbled--his last mistake--before Jaskier relieved him of his belt knife and sank it deep into his gut.

They stared at one another for a breathless moment--one set of eyes wide with pain and surprise, the other flat and dark with rage--before the mercenary fell to his knees.

Jaskier followed him down, giving the knife in his hands a final twist before getting back to his feet.

He heard the sharp hum of displaced air and barely managed to jerk aside before another arrow carved a burning path along his cheek. His eyes narrowed in concentration a moment before he flipped the knife in his hand into a new grip and let it whirl through the air. The movement was graceful, familiar, despite the years of allowing himself to be protected by Geralt’s bulk and he watched the knife spin through the air with satisfaction.

The archer had been overconfident--sure in his belief that the bard was the least dangerous of the two men they’d been sent to attack. He hadn’t even bothered to reach for another one of his bolts. It made it all the more satisfying to watch the blade sink deep into his throat. The man choked, scrabbling at the blade that Jaskier already knew would lead to his death. He doesn’t bother to wait for the end, just turned to face the last of the mercenaries.

Three down. Three more stood between him and Geralt.

The one closest to him raised his trembling sword with a panicked expression at the unexpected violence. “Wh--what the fuck? You’re just a bard.”

Jaskier’s smile was more a baring of his teeth, made more alarming with the blood sprayed across his skin and clothing. “You’re first mistake was believing that.”

He moved with all the speed he possessed, hampered by the lack of a weapon--like hell would he use his lute on these buffoons--and strengthened by the force of his fury. He let the flat of the blade slap against his open palm while his other hand dropped down to grab the man around the hand holding the hilt of the weapon. They struggled, grunting with the effort to control the sword and end the fight quickly. 

Jaskier could see the other soldiers recovering from their shock and beginning to move closer. They circled the two struggling men looking for an opening to use force and strength of numbers to defeat the unexpected threat of a bard’s vengeance. 

He caught sight of a flicker of metal in the muted sunlight and turned in time to let the blade meant for his head sink into the meat of his opponent’s should. The man screamed, dropping his sword and clutching at the wound. Jaskier didn’t give him time to recover, just grabbed the heavy broadsword from the ground of half-dropped, half-stabbed it into the man’s chest. 

“You’re second mistake,” he spat as he pulled the sword free from the dead man’s body and turned to face the others, “was laying a fucking hand on my Witcher.”

* * *

His mind blanked with the simple rhythm of struggling to survive. Block. Dodge and roll. The crunch of bone breaking beneath his foot. The elegant slice of a blade through the air.

Then he is alone, panting above the bodies of the mercenaries.

Jaskier lifts his hands away from the sword hilt that felt practically welded onto his palm and found his hands sticky with drying blood. He could feel it itching along his face, sinking into the folds of his shirt and breaches. There was a manic sort of thought in his mind that he must look like Geralt after he’d been chewed up and spat out by countless monsters.

The reminder of the cause of this unfettered violence made Jaskier stumble away from the carcasses towards the only one that mattered.

Geralt was sprawled across the ground on his back, somehow beautiful even with dirt and blood covering nearly every inch of him. Jaskier found his hands shaking now in a way they hadn’t during the quick skirmish as he reached out to trail his fingers across Geralt’s cheek.

“Geralt?” he whispered plaintively, “Oh gods, Geralt. Please be okay.”

The Witcher stirred at the sound of his name, brows furrowing in a familiar scowl before his eyes finally came open and focused on Jaskier’s face. He took in the sight of the bard’s bloody face and clothes and tensed, hands weakly seeking his weapons from their familiar hilts until Jaskier caught them between his.

“I’m fine. I’m okay, I promise. You--you got shot. I need you to stay still, alright?”

Geralt grunted, no doubt beginning to feel the dull agony of the two arrow wounds without adrenaline to dull them.

Jaskier fumbled with the medallion around Geralt’s neck, using his slippery fingers to locate the charm Yennefer had left behind the last time she’d visited. He’d never felt such a bright rush of gratitude as when his fingers touched the simple charm and the blood on his fingertips activated the rune carved in its side.

“Yennefer!” he panted, shaking Geralt slightly when the bigger man began to close his eyes again, “Stay awake, damn you.  _ Yennefer _ ! Get your ridiculously attractive ass over here!”

There was a woosh of misplaced air behind him and Jaskier whirled around in a crouch, ready to face a new threat. His hands closed around two of the daggers Geralt carried at his waist and he moved them into a defensive position with ease. 

Instead of another foe, a witch stepped free of the twisting streaks of power and bright color. Her dark hair fell in artful curls around a jet black dress that only highlighted the dangerous curves of her body. The high mandorin collar was cut low to show off the curve of her breasts. In another life, Jaskier would have been eager to trace each inch of skin with his eyes and drip poetry from his lips like a fine wine, but that was before he’d fallen for a gruff, emotionally stunted Witcher. That was before Geralt.

“Yen…” Geralt groaned, fingers loose on the back of Jaskier’s shirt.

Yennefer’s eyes took in the scene around her with a curious expression before narrowing in on the bard and the fallen Witcher. She stepped closer, power crackling at her fingertips. “What happened?”

“Mercenaries,” Jaskier grunted, relaxing for his ready position enough to let her begin her examination. She eyed the knives but didn’t comment about the way he didn’t put them away. “They shot Geralt in the shoulder and ambushed us on the way to collect our coin.”

As the mage got to work on Geralt, Jaskier took the opportunity to look over one of the closest bodies for identification. His lips pursed angrily when he saw a familiar sigil carved into the metal and leather armor. The same sigil as the beady eyed lordling who’d hired them to come out here. It was easy to guess why the nobleman too cheap to pay his villagers a decent wage would hire a bunch of mercenaries to catch a Witcher when he was worn down from a monster fight. 

Jaskier made a mental note to repay the favor. With interest.

“The wound is deeper than I’d like,” Yennefer murmured, eyes dark as she channeled her power into the Witcher’s still body, “We need Tris.”

The bard nodded, too terrified of the pallor clinging to Geralt’s lips to protest traveling to another mage’s location. He usually preferred to avoid Yennefer and her strange friends, but anything was worth making sure Geralt was alright. 

His eyes drifted to where Roach was grazing patiently at the edge of the wood. Past experience had taught him the horse couldn’t travel the same portals mages used. He reached down to brush a strand of pale hair away from the hard panes of Geralt’s face. Without the usual bad mood and thrum of energy that powered each of the Witcher’s movements, Geralt looked smaller somehow. More fragile.

Jaskier swallowed hard and looked back at the mage. “Take him to her. I’ll follow with Roach.”

“There may be more of the Lord’s men around. It’ll be dangerous for you to travel alone.”

“I’m not a damsel and I’m not in distress,” he snapped, twisting the knife in his left hand in a complicated pattern, “I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

Yennefer watched the movement with open curiosity. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused when Geralt shifted restlessly on the ground.

“Go. I’ll bring Roach--that way Geralt doesn’t kill us both.”

She hesitated for another beat before nodding. Her strong arms wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders while one hand cast out in a complicated pattern that pulled another portal open from the air. Geralt’s head rolled limply against her chest and helped chase away any hesitation Jaskier still felt at the prospect of traveling alone. He would not be the reason the Witcher died from his injuries.

Yennefer stepped toward the portal, but Jaskier stopped her with a quick hand on her arm. He winced at her expression, pulling his hand away just as quickly. 

“Just...just take care of him, alright?” he said after a moment, eyes on the unconscious Witcher. “He has to be okay.” 

She nodded solemnly. “He won’t come to harm under my watch.”

The mage tightened her hold on Geralt before she turned and walked into the portal. There was a soft pop, like a displacement of air, and the portal disappeared. In its wake, the forest was silent and still aside from the slow slump of Jaskier’s shoulders.

He was alone again.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so I wrote this while driving all day so please excuse any spelling errors. It’s full of some angst and pining so I hope you enjoy despite any flaws.

  
  


He awoke slowly, peeling away each layer of sleep like a husk. 

His body felt soft and syrupy in a way that experience told him involved a mage and healing. He breathed deep and scented gooseberries and lavender. 

Once the scent would have sent a thrum of excitement through the Witcher. He might have smiled, stretched, and sent a hand seeking through silken sheets to find warm flesh. Now it only made him aware of the scent that was missing—summer grasses, a tang of wood polish—

_ Jaskier.  _

Geralt sat up quickly enough that the side of his body flared hot with bright agony. He hissed a breath through his teeth and looked around. 

The room was opulent enough that he cold guess the owner even without the smell of her lingering in the air. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth to chase the early autumn chill away. The bed was massive and piled high with thick blankets and fur that were still tucked around him. He could feel the press of them against his skin and knew he was stripped down to his smalls aside from the swath of bandages stretched across the width of his chest and thigh. 

Geralt presses a gentle finger against the linen and lets the memories surface. 

—The subtle flicker of movement that was all the warning he got before the arrow sank into his flesh. —

—His sword slicing through the air to clash with another even while his eyes keep going back to the last place he saw Jaskier.—

— Jaskier’s wide eyes fixed on him with panic marring the pretty blue. There’s a hand wrapped around his throat, fingers pulling his head back in a cruel arc, but his mouth shaped a word that Geralt felt resonate his chest.—

— The dull think of an arrow finding its home in Geralt’s leg and sending him to his knees. —

—A scream…

His mind became hazy after that. He could remember flashes of the bard moving closer like a fever dream and hallucination in one. The image of Jaskier moving with singular intent that normally was reserved for his songs and a vicious grace through his attackers sent a thrum of heat through his body. 

He’d have to consider that sensation at a later date. 

Right now, he needed answers. Geralt shifted cautiously and was grateful when only a dull pain answered him. It was a gift and a curse. If he’d been down long enough to mostly heal, that left Jaskier alone and possibly hurt for longer. There was no way Jaskier would ever allow Geralt to wake up alone if he was capable of movement. 

The thought sent an icy spike of fear through his supposedly emotionless heart. 

It wasn’t that he thought the bard couldn’t protect himself. He’d been traveling alone for years before he’d met the Witcher and Geralt has seen more than one bar fight end with a much larger men on the floor cradling a bloodied nose after underestimating the bard. Jaskier fought like he sang—all wicked lines and cunning attacks. 

Geralt had also attempted to ensure the smaller man stayed safe once it became obvious that Jaskier had entrained himself in Geralt’s very soul. He’d gifted him with a set of throwing knives after watching Jaskier easily beat a tavern full of soldiers in a throwing contest. 

(It was either that or throw the man over his shoulder to fond some quiet place to kiss him senseless.)

Occasionally, when Geralt was in control of his body’s visceral reaction to the way the bard looked when he fought and he wasn’t covered in monster gore, they would spar around the campfire. Then he could hone the sharp edges earned in back alley brawls into polished style that could keep the impetuous bard alive until Geralt arrived to pull him out of trouble. 

Only Geralt hadn’t been able to uphold his promise. He fallen beneath the unexpected ambush. Which left bright, beautiful,  _ human  _ Jaskier alone against trained mercenaries and—

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he hissed and tried to get to his wobbling feet. 

The door opened and Yennefer swept into the room carry a try of clean bandages, a pitcher of water, and a bowl of what smelled like soup. She frowned at him when she saw him standing at the side of the bed, but he cut her off before she could voice the censure blooming at the tip of her tongue. 

“Where is he?”

“Well so much for pleasantries and gratitude,” she sniffed. 

A growl rumbled to life in the pit of his chest and he narrowed his eyes dangerously. He had no time for the witch’s games today. 

She must have sensed how ragged his control was because she sighed and gestured to the bed. “At least let me check your wounds before you ruin all of Tris’ hard work.”

His eyes flicked behind her like he could find the other mage lurking nearby. Yennefer’s jaw tightened in a way that meant she was gearing up for a fight so he slowly sank back onto the mattress. Playing along would mean finding out where his bard was more quickly. 

“What happened?” he asked in a more level tone. 

“Jaskier activated your charm and told me you were in trouble,” Yennefer said as she unrolled the bandages on his chest and began to inspect the wound. It was almost healed over now, leaving only some residual soreness from the blow as his body worked to heal the worst of it. “So I crafted a portal to save your ungrateful ass.”

Geralt grunted, turning the brief description over in his mind for the things she wasn’t telling him. The charm was hanging behind the wolf medallion around his neck which meant the bard had managed to reach it and alert Yennefer after the Witcher had collapsed. Which left him returning to the question that made his fingers clench around the soft sheets. 

“So where is Jaskier now?”

At this, the mage paused, chewing her lip in a rare display of discomfort. “When I got there, the mercenaries were already dead and you...Geralt, it was bad. It took all of Tris and my abilities to keep you from dying right away. Jaskier was adamant that we heal you.”

Horror swept through him and he felt his heart tremble into a new rhythm that made him feel like he was drowning in slowly growing panic. 

He stared at her, eyes begging for her to tell him it wasn’t true. “You left him there.”

“Geralt, I—“

Geralt got to his feet in a blur of pain and barely controlled panic. His weapons and armor were in a neat stack beside the dresser and he zeroed in on them like they held the secret to all of his problems. 

“Did you at least see if he was injured before you abandoned him?” He spat viciously. 

“He was healthy enough to kill off the rest of your attackers!” She snapped back, guilt mixing with anger. “Roach couldn’t go through the portal so he told me to go without him.”

Of fucking course. The damn bard would risk his life to protect what he believed to be the most important part of Geralt’s. When he found Jaskier he was going to wring his neck for doubting that Geralt wouldn’t burn the whole world to ash to keep him safe. 

Strapped his swords across his chest, he tightened a strap on his armor, and turned back to Yennefer. The mage looked uncharacteristically worried and he was reminded that despite their differences Jaskier and Yennefer had developed a strange sort of friendship. Perhaps leaving the human behind hadn’t been so easy of a choice. 

“How long was I out?” he finally asked in a slightly softer tone. 

At this, Yennefer went pale and her fingers tightened around a forgotten roll of bandages like she was trying to brace herself. 

“A week. He should have arrived two days ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will feature our feral boy. I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all, it's here, it's huge, and it's bloody. If you like feral Jaskier, I have tried to channel my inner Slavic chaos into every word. 
> 
> I hope you like it.
> 
> Beta’d by the lovely icantloseyou.

It was bizarre saddling up Roach on his own and starting off down the road. 

Worse still, Jaskier could practically hear the conversation he  _ should  _ be having with Geralt instead of the mute horse. 

_ Fires attract creatures. You should put it out.  _

“Yeah, well, fires  _ also _ prevent freezing to death which I will do if I let it go out.”

_ Be careful around those potions, bard. They’re expensive.  _

“Too bad they weren’t enough to keep you alive without Triss’ help.”

Just the thought was enough to make him pause in the midst of sorting through the saddle bags for travel rations. He took a deep breath, leaning against Roach’s warm shoulder to center him against the urge to scream. 

This time Geralt’s imaginary voice was almost gentle. _ Don’t lean on Roach—she works harder than both of us.  _

The familiar complaint made him smile and helped distract him from the loneliness creeping in with the night’s chill. Or the bone deep fear that had settled deep in his chest at the same time the arrow had sunk into Geralt’s. He could still see the moment when Geralt had stumbled and looked to him, as though he was more frightened about what it would mean for Jaskier. The bard couldn’t imagine what he’d ever done to deserve that emotion on the Witcher’s face. 

He still didn’t sleep much. 

* * *

Jaskier had learned quite a few tips and tricks after years of traveling on his own and with the great hulking mass of a Witcher at his side. He knew how to follow a map and could guess the distance between towns with moderate accuracy. He remembered where Geralt had slaughtered a kelpie and where he took out a near rabid puka even better than the Witcher did. It made it easier to pretend he was a valuable traveling partner and could help Geralt with his tasks. 

Which was why he knew when he turned left at the crossroads, he was heading in the opposite direction of Triss’ home. 

Roach huffed beneath him like she could sense the dangerous plan forming in his mind, but settled when he stroked a hand over her mane. “They hurt him, girl. All because they didn’t want to pay up. I think they deserve a little punishment for that, don’t you?”

She didn’t respond and Jaskier smiled to himself. The weight of the bow across his back and the sword on his hip were unfamiliar, but comforting presences. It had been a long time since he had a use for either, but he was more than happy to end his fast with the blood of those responsible for Geralt’s injuries. 

After all, no one could hold a grudge quite like a bard. 

They would eviscerate you in fiction. Crow your defeats and failings to the world to the tune of some melody impossible to forget. They could make your name known to all as a despicable cad and murder your reputation before every audience who’d listen. 

Jaskier was far away from his audience, so he supposed he would have to settle for just the murder.

* * *

He came across the second group poised to ambush them the next day. 

The lord must have truly been worried of Geralt’s abilities if he’d been afraid one ambush wouldn’t be enough to halt his return journey. They were camped out on a rocky outcropping that would have given them ample space to shoot Geralt down before he could even dismount. The soldiers were smart enough to realize it wasn’t worth risking a battle against a Witcher. 

Jaskier hated them for that. 

He probably would have fallen just as easily beneath their bows were it not for Roach. She’d tilted her nose to the wind as the breeze shifted and let her ears go tight and flat against her head. Jaskier recognized the message for what it was and slid immediately off her back to scout ahead. 

He found the campsite easily enough. Only two members of the group were actually paying attention to the road and the woods around them while the others were busy playing cards. Eight members total meant Jaskier had no chance fighting them alone. He’d have to be clever instead. 

Jaskier silently backtracked to where he’d left Roach and fished out a withered apple for her to enjoy while he considered his task. After a pause, he reached one hand into the bag carrying Geralt’s potions. His fingers closed around a round glass vial and he pulled it free to study the green liquid within. 

It simmered and shifted oddly within the glass, reacting in ways no liquid should. Even with the glass between them, Jaskier could feel the instinctive urge to get away from the concoction. It was a primal fear that warned he would do well to avoid such things.

Jaskier had never been good at listening to the warnings of others.

He placed the vial in his coin purse carefully and wrapped a thick handkerchief around it to muffle any noises. A second handkerchief went around his neck in a loose loop that he could pull up over his nose and mouth. After a bit of careful thought, he left his stolen sword with Roach in favor of the bow and quiver and a dagger. If it came down to defending himself by hand, he knew he was already lost.

Forgive me, Geralt, he thought to the voice that was growling in his ear. 

Night had fallen dark when Jaskier left Roach and his quiet camp to return to the soldiers. He tried not to think about the way he’d carefully unsaddled the mare and left her tied in a way that wouldn’t be difficult to pull free from if he...if he didn’t come back. Geralt would be furious if anything happened to Roach.

His approach on the camp was aided by the waxing moon hanging above him. It cast shadows and helped disguise any movement from the predators lurking about. He could see the fire still lit and burning away at the center of their group and counted the outlines of each soldier. When he came up with two missing, he decided they were continuing the habit of having two on watch while the others relaxed. 

Jaskier circled the area until he found the two guards--one sleeping against a large oak and the other staring out at the road from the edge of the outcrop. As he watched them, he toyed with the knife in his hand. The guards would have to go first or he’d be in danger of them calling an alarm to the other sleeping soldiers. It would need to be quick and quiet or his plan would be over before it even started.

The first went easily enough.

His blade sank deep into the tender flesh between her shoulder and neck. She thrashed, but Jaskier held firm from his angle behind her. The cut was deep enough that she bled out quickly enough and the bard passed the time until she went completely still staring down at the road where they would have shot Geralt down. He tossed the body down the outcrop and stood, ignoring the cooling blood down his front. He hadn’t bothered to change from the clothes he’d worn in the initial attack--no sense ruining more than one set of his performance clothing.

The other guard never woke from where he was sleeping against the tree. 

Jaskier padded back to the rest of the camp and smiled when he saw that none of them had woken at the sound of the scuffling in the brush. They lay in lumps of bedrolls arranged around the fire in a neat circle. A few snored softly, sleeping deeply with no care in the world for the sinister purpose for which they’d been sent. It helped chase any small stirrings of guilt far away from the bard’s heart. No one would hurt his Witcher without punishment. Not while he still drew breath.

It was true that he was usually more than content to allow Geralt to slash his way through the world behind one of his massive swords. The Witcher had survived for decades before Jaskier had stumbled into his life with bread-filled pants. He knew how cruel people could be. But the longer the bard remained at his side, the less tolerant of the barbed statements and hateful looks that were tossed their way at each town. It was why so many of his songs transformed the gruff, hulking Witcher into a heroic character like the old tales. That, and the fact that Jaskier had been helplessly in love with the man ever since he’d tried to protect him from the beating the elves were dealing out.

Geralt might never return those feelings, but Jaskier would be damned before he allowed anyone to get away with hurting the soft center at the Witcher’s core.

It took all of his skill gained from skulking around taverns, and the occasional pick-pocketing spree, to make his way into the camp without waking any of the soldiers. He looked down at their sleeping faces and the weapons stored carefully nearby and felt his heart harden. Without hesitation, Jaskier reached into his pouch and pulled free the vial he’d stored there. 

He jerked the handkerchief over his nose and mouth carefully before upending the contents into the flames.

Almost immediately, the fire crackled a sickly color of dark green and Jaskier could see a thick smoke beginning to curl away from the burning logs. His head began to swim dangerously at the sweet scent and he hurried as quickly as he could away from the fire. The smoke was denser now and settled in low over the sleeping guards in a thick fog. He held his breath as he moved away and quickly climbed above the line of smoke using the thick branches of a nearby tree.

It wasn’t long before the first guard began to seize beneath his bedroll. The venomous arachas poison was powerful enough to give Geralt pause and more than enough to ensure the deaths of the other soldiers. By morning, it would dissipate into the grasses with the dew, but, for now, it would remain a deadly cloud over the camp. Soon, the other soldiers started to twitch feebly as their bodies began to ingest the poison.

He remained in the tree, watching the destruction he’d wrought, until the sun peeked over the horizon. By then, the poison had long since escorted each of his enemies into the clutches of the otherworld. Only one had managed to crawl free from his bedroll to try to escape the poison making blood well in his mouth and his limbs shake, but went still with a well-placed arrow from the bow beside Jaskier.

Jaskier waited until all the bodies were still and silent around the fire and the gaseous fog was long gone. Then he carefully got down from his tree, checked over the bodies for anything useful, and headed back to find Roach.

All that was left now was the lord who’d tried to kill them.

____________________

Said lord was located in a manor house at the edge of the town of Korac. His house was grandiose in a way that seemed scandalous against the skinny, sallow skinned people in the village below. There was no secret to how much money was spent on expensive balls and parties instead of assisting the people he taxed. At the time, Geralt and Jaskier had been more than happy to relieve him of some money for a few monsters.

Now, Jaskier intended to relieve him of his life.

Of course, it could never be as easy as walking up and stabbing the man to death. Jaskier had no desire to end this so easily, nor would he allow his hard-won reputation to be destroyed with the charge of murder. This made getting his revenge more complicated, certainly.

Instead of entering the city with his usual fanfare, Jaskier settled for a more subtle route. He borrowed Geralt’s cloak from one of the saddlebags. It smelt like sweat and leather and something inherently  _ Geralt _ that made him feel better than it probably should. He felt like a child again, clinging to the illusion of safety beneath a blanket. For now, it would cover the worst of the bloodstains and the growing manic fury in his eyes.

He walked through streets he’d traveled at Geralt’s side and felt the rage simmering in his blood stoke with each reminder of how they’d been lied to by the lord of this godsforsaken place. They had been promised enough coin to keep them fed and safe for a few weeks at least. Long enough for them to return to Kaer Morhen for the winter. It should have been the same as every other job the Witcher had taken in his long life. It should have been safe. They should have been  _ safe _ .

Now he’s walking alone with Geralt’s blood mixed into the layers of gore and viscera marring his clothes. He knows what it’s like to see the Witcher fall because of his wounds and not get up. He knows now what it’s like to hand the love of his life to the woman he chose and understand that their future together was inevitable. This, at least, Jaskier could give the love of his life. He could give him revenge and the safety of waking in Yennefer’s arms.

It would be enough.

He ignored the curious looks when he hitched Roach outside the small inn, but didn’t go inside. The stableboy smiled when he tossed one of his last coins in his direction to make sure the mare was treated well. She certainly deserved it after all the shit he’d put her through. He didn’t want to risk her getting hurt again.

Jaskier moved up the drive to the mansion and considered his next move. He knew from their first visit that the lord supplemented his staff with a significant number of armed guards. Even with the dozen or so he’d killed, there would be more waiting for another threat in the massive house. The surprise he’d used to his advantage in the woods would disappear quickly once the scouts returned with only dead bodies as evidence of his ambush.

So he needed to be quick and ensure that news of the attack--and who was responsible for it--didn’t spread. The last thing he needed was Geralt to be hunted down for Jaskier’s bloodlust. Nor did he intend to give the stingy little lordling the benefit of making Jaskier a murderer.

Despite the logic driving him, there was little calm in the bard as he moved closer to the manor and considered the task of killing the man within. It had taken the better part of the day to travel the rest of the way from the last campsite, and he could smell the bread and meat simmering in the kitchens even at a distance. There were guards moving around the massive estate on a regular basis and the only villagers allowed inside were those who were shuttling the hay and feed for his expensive horses from the meager fields below. 

He was able to sneak past the front gates into the main courtyard and servants’ entrance by grabbing a box full of odds and ends from one of the carts and looking busy. The kitchens and servant’s quarters were full of busy looking people who were too tired to be concerned with another drably dressed man in their midst. A few gave him a second look but were mollified when he brushed past them as though he knew exactly where he was going and couldn’t be bothered to explain.

Getting to the lord would be impossible without some sort of distraction to draw the guards away from his quarters so Jaskier was content to let the dinner service proceed. At least this way he knew exactly where the lord would be for the time being. Poison was a tempting solution for ending his problems quickly, but he didn’t want any of the starving villagers or overworked servants to be blamed for the death. He would have to take a more direct route.

As he waited, he sat in the corner of the main courtyard and watched a man muck out the horse stalls. The bard eyed the hay and smiled slowly to himself.

This would be fun.

* * *

The world was on fire.

He could hear screams and shouts of alarms from the panicked guards and servants trying to put out the flames eagerly consuming the stables. The whinnies from panicked horses milled around the manor grounds and he heard more than one servant scurrying after them. Somewhere the lord shrieked at them to capture the missing animals before stomping up to his bedroom and slamming the door.

The lord was a tall, balding man with a penchant for sweating copiously when he was nervous. Like when he was hiring a Witcher who he intended to kill. 

Or when he turned around and realized there was an armed bard in his bedchamber with a drawn arrow aimed at his head.

Jaskier’s smile was as sharp as the blade at his hip.

“My lord,” he purred, “so good of you to drop by.”

* * *

The first time Geralt saw the remains of the battle that had sent him to his knees, he’d been in shock.

Despite Yennefer’s assurances that Jaskier was alive and well, it was hard to see how when he was looking at the bloated corpses of several trained mercenaries. This had been a planned, organized attack designed to eliminate the benefits of Witcher training and senses. And somehow, Jaskier had survived it.

Sweet, sensitive Jaskier, who had shrieked at the sight of a rat in one of their rented rooms. The same bard who’d spent the better part of a week trying to find the perfect rhyme to truly encapsulate the color of Geralt’s eyes when he’d agreed to save a town threatened by a nest of harpies. 

Geralt couldn’t seem to breathe through the mixture of panic and confusion that had consumed him since Yennefer opened the portal to the sight. Not when he’d confirmed that Jaskier and Roach had continued down the road. Or when they’d continued past the correct turn towards where Geralt would have been recovering. He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the sort of vicious, feral violence that had been unleashed in the bard.

Then he found the second campsite and discovered just how far his little bard was willing to go for revenge.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the darkness lurking within the man who’d traveled with him for so long He’d always assumed that Jaskier was the type of person who needed to be protected from the darkness of the world--now he was beginning to think he had underestimated the man.

It didn’t make it easier to see the danger Jaskier had put himself willingly into. Geralt made a mental note to sit the man down and remind him that he wasn’t immortal. Maybe shake some sense into him until he was sure the lesson would stick. Then wrap him in soft blankets and keep him locked away until Geralt’s heart rate returned to normal. 

He didn’t want to think about why the thought of Jaskier being hurt felt like knives being driven into his skin. For years, he’d survived by convincing himself that the bard was an odd little comrade for his travels who was good for a few laughs and entertainment on quiet nights. Recognizing Jaskier as a friend had taken years, but Geralt knew that the fear building in him with every passing hour was more than anything he’d felt for another human. Even Yennefer had never consumed his thoughts with the bone-deep dread he felt when he considered that he might never see his bard again.

Geralt tightened his hand around his sword and turned back to where Yennefer was waiting at the edge of the second campground. “He’s heading towards the lord’s manor.”

“Yes,” she said with a considering tilt of her head, looking as though she was reevaluating her opinion on Jaskier as well, “your bard seems to be on quite the revenge mission.”

Gods save him if Jaskier was killed trying to avenge a grouchy Witcher who’d never truly appreciated him until he was considering a life without him.

“We need to keep moving.”

Yennefer sighed and summoned another portal that rippled to life with a rush of wind and power. Geralt didn’t bother to wait for her before he raced into it, trusting her to continue searching for Jaskier so long as her curiosity was piqued. 

He stepped through and paused to let his senses catch up with the new location, all at once overwhelmed with the cacophony of sounds and smells. 

Smoke. 

Bright flames sending shadows into the dusky night. 

The shrieks of horses. He could only hope Roach was safe elsewhere. 

Screams of panic and alarm. 

Geralt was moving before he even processed the thought. His feet pounded down the street toward the manor even as his hands reached for his weapons. He didn’t bother to wait and see if the mage would follow. The injuries in his chest and side were long forgotten in the rush of pure, focused  _ need  _ to find Jaskier. 

The manor was clearly the source of all the panic in the village and he used it to his advantage as he approached. If Jaskier truly was seeking revenge, the bard would have no business waiting outside when his target was safe within his gilded walls. Geralt joined the few and far between staff members moving quickly through the hallways toward their destination. If they were surprised to see a Witcher running full tilt down the hall, they were smart enough not to comment. 

“Jaskier?” He called. His tone was drowning in worry and impatience as he slung open a set of doors to reveal another unused bedroom. “ _ Jaskier _ !”

Only the muted crackle of flames answered him. 

“Fuck.”

Geralt turned another corner and began flinging open doors as quickly as possible until he found another servant scurrying in his direction. They blanched at the sight of him but he was casting his ward before they could disappear. “Wait—tell me where I can find your lord.”

Wordlessly, the small man raised a finger to point at the last door in the hallway and Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. 

He didn’t bother to do more than give a grunt of thanks before he was moving in that direction. His heart thundered a rapid beat in his ears that had no place in a Witcher’s body. It was as though the presence of Jaskeir had chiseled away each of the defenses he’d crafted over the years. Harsh words had lost their bite; quick dismissals came with silent pleas to stay; all for a bard that was meant to be just another one of the thousand humans he’d met and forgotten in his lifetime. 

There was nothing forgettable about the way his pulse pounded and his palms were sweating around his sword. He wished for the days of fearlessness if they were to be replaced with this--this madness. All he could focus on was getting Jaskier to somewhere far away from here so he could ensure the crazy human was safe from wild revenge schemes and violence.

With that thought in mind, Geralt burst through the door the servant had indicated with one muscular shoulder. It slammed open with a bang and ricocheted off the wall. He came inside like a stormwind, brandishing his weapon as his eyes scanned for threats, only to come up short.

Jaskier sat, lazy and indolent as he would on any tavern barstool, at the dressing table beside the massive bed. Blood, dark and drying, was splattered liberally enough across his front that Geralt took a step toward him before his eyes focused on the bow aimed at him.

For a moment, they could only stare at each other.

Then, “Oh, Geralt. What are you doing here?”

The Witcher gaped at him, baffled beyond all understanding. “Where is the lord of the manor?” he finally managed.

Jaskier gestured to the bed and the body Geralt could now see was lying still and unmoving across the embroidered duvet. His fingers twitched around his blade and he slowly let it return to its sheath. His mind felt like it was filled with a static hum that seemed to get louder every time he looked between Jaskier and the dead lord.

“You...killed him?”

“Erm, yes. I did,” Jaskier said, now beginning to look a little sheepish at being caught in this position. His next words came out in a fervent tumble, “He  _ hurt _ you, Geralt. I couldn’t just let him get away with doing such an ignoble thing. Did you know he had another set of soldiers just waiting to shoot you down at the top of the next ridgeline?”

Geralt took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the bard who continued to ramble.

“He tried to tell me that it was alright because you were ‘ _ just a Witcher _ ,’” Jaskier hissed, an unfamiliar fire darkening his eyes. The only other time he’s been this furious was when someone sang a song about Valdo Marx in front of him. It made Geralt feel a little giddy. 

“--and he treated his people terribly, Geralt. Did you see them? Speaking of, what are you doing up? Yennefer said you needed to rest and recover, but you-- mph!”

Whatever Jaskier would have said was cut off by the Witcher’s lips pressed against his.

Geralt pulled away when they were both breathing heavily and he began to feel the low thrum of pain reminding him of his injuries. He ran his nose across Jaskier’s jaw down to the pulse thundering beneath the fragile skin. The scent of blood nearly drowned out the smell of wood oil, cedar, and the expensive oils the bard prefered still lingered just behind his ear. It settled something he hadn’t realized was broken deep in his chest.

“G--Geralt...are you sure you’re okay?” Jaskier breathed and Geralt leaned back to find his eyes pressed firmly closed, “You just kissed me.”

“Hmm.” There was a hint of amusement in his deep rumble.

Jaskier’s eyes opened to narrow at him dangerously. “You’d better not be hallucinating that I’m Yennefer.”

Geralt let his hand run down the length of Jaskier’s spine, across the blades at his waists, before squeezing the ripe curve of his ass. He smirked, “Definitely not Yennefer.”

Jaskier made a sound akin to a squawk and looked to be struggling to decide if he was offended or pleased by the comparison. Finally, he gave a slow smile. “Who knew you were so turned on by revenge?”

His laughter was cut off with a strangled groan when Geralt lifted him off his feet and swallowed the sound with his mouth. 

Later, Geralt would lecture him on the risks of mortality and bards who took on more than they could handle. For now, he decided to see for himself all the things he’d been missing over the years.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been a blast to write. I've fallen in love with our feral little bard and thinking of ways for him to destroy his enemies without the benefits of magic or Witcher powers. I like to think he'd be this vicious in canon if Geralt was threatened too.
> 
> If you liked this story, check out my rapidly expanding library of feral Jaskier fics. You can also find me on twitter as geraskierficrecs.
> 
> Stay tuned for a new Geralt/Jaskier version of the Winter Soldier with Jaskier becoming the Soldier. It's going to be lots of angst and a particularly violent bard.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm debating doing a second chapter from Geralt's POV. Let me know if you'd like to see this continue.
> 
> If you like my brand of angst and violence, come check out my other Witcher fics!
> 
> **Edit** Sooo....my finger slipped and now I've plotted out two more chapters. Stand by for more. :)


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